Like this one. This one could be called typical. Wild black hair on the dame. Not long, but wild. A little sloppy, like the last-season's modo-strap she wore on the white skin between her breasts. The strap looked fringy.
"Fuel, Miss?" he asked.
But the woman didn't seem to hear. She was studying a small scanning disc, turning it this way and that like somebody pruning herself. Only not. She was giving the place the once over.
"Yeah," she said finally. "Yeah, but not the kind you think...." she stopped. She glared suddenly across the ramps at another jet—a Security Ship—that was coming in fast, settling for the cradle next to hers.
"No," she said. "No. Changed my mind. How far's Fraon from here?"
"You're on the edges now. Follow the bottom lane and drop when you see the lights. That be all?"
But the woman didn't answer. She yanked at controls inside the cabin and the old beat up jet rose with a tired, grumbling roar like the sigh of a very old man contemplating the long long years that have gone.
Ten minutes later she looked down, yanked once more on the controls. She'd almost overshot. The ship shuddered violently fore to aft and then jammed down inside the Administration Port.
She hunched her shoulders inside the plastiskin, let her eyes go up to a sucker sign off in the distance. She read:
CITY OF FRAON,
GAMBLER'S PARADISE